Dear Dexter Deals in Death
by Kalfu
Summary: A night with a full moon. A bad man who has lived too comfortably for too long. A stalker with a white silk mask and a syringe in his pocket and a Dark Passenger who came along for the ride. A story about one of Dexter's victims. One-Shot


**Disclaimer: Jeff Lindsay is responsible for the creation of Dexter (contrary to popular belief that it was the poor boy witnessing his mother's death). I do not own anything to do with it, EXCEPT for Paul Shrapner who I don't even like that much myself anyway.**

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The Moon. 

The white, wonderful, wild, wicked, whole moon. It calls out like a howling beast to the howling beast within myself; the beast that echoes back with an excited growl. It calls to the 'me' that is not me, to the creature inside of me, the one who chuckles and hisses and whispers and lulls me into an illusion of not being alone. But that doesn't matter. Not now. Because now I am not the one in control, I am only watching from the backseat as the true driver, the thing inside of me, the Dark Passenger, prowls like the predator it is; on the hunt for a pray we have already marked.

The pray tonight was someone I had been _dying_ to get my teeth into. Tonight the prey was known as Paul Shrapner. He was a bony man, with sunken features that made his eyes stand out particularly well, he had thinning blond hair atop of a head that was dressed with ill fitted, bad quality skin. And somehow, we (the Dark Passenger and I) found this offensive; this sorry chunk of flesh was barely worth dissecting. And yet, there was nothing else prepared. It was true that I had researched others that could potentially be suited to restraint under my plastic wrap, but this man was the only one I was sure of, the only one that I had evidence of guilt and I _needed_ to let loose my other self; which had been forced into an uneasy sleep for too long and he needed to be let out _now_.

Shrapner was in sight now, coming out of a very nice house in clothes that were almost barbaric in comparison to the elegant building. I was sure that the very presence of his clothes would bring down the value of the place.

"The neighbours must love him…" 

I heard a dark chuckle coming from the Dark Passenger in response to my observation. Well, It was nice to know that 'he' could still hear me when I let him take the front seat.

But of course, despite the bad choice of attire, the neighbours _did_ love old Paulie. And why wouldn't they? He was the model citizen really (at least on the outside); Paul Shrapner was the founder of a local homeless shelter (for young runaway boys in particular) and he had 'helped' dozens of boys to see the light and return to their families. However, after a little digging around, Dear Diligent Dexter found that not many, if indeed any, of these boys ever made it back to their families, loving or otherwise. It seemed that Mr. Shrapner, along with a surprising amount of other criminals, had taken full advantage of the abundant Everglades near Miami to dump the bodies, figuring that they would be perfectly suited dumping grounds. He would have been right too, if it hadn't been for luck. Luck. A fair lady that always seemed to smile upon the Dark Dexter Duo. It didn't seem to matter how good I was; I had luck on my side. And one night, when I had wandered off of my usual path, swayed by the lilting sirens song of the moon, I had come upon this man. It has only happened a few times before, where my prey has literally come to me and sat itself upon my lap. But despite the coaxing voice of the Dark Passenger's whispers, I couldn't indulge myself. I knew the man was guilty; he was dumping a body, it doesn't get more clear that that. But I couldn't. I had to be prepared, I had to make sure that everything would go smoothly and that everything was right. Harry right. I had to make sure that this would all be squared away, like Harry had told me to do.

So I watched, and I waited. Not ignoring the excited whispers from my other self, but disregarding them until I had prepared fully.

I was prepared now though, and I was ready to strike. The Killer's instinct inside of me was ready, cold, coiled, cocked, and ready. I could hear the Need cheer as Paul Shrapner finally opened his car door and sat in.

_Now_!

This was the time to strike! I launched myself up from my crouched position behind the drivers seat in his car and jabbed the syringe into his neck. He barely got the time to see the white silk mask that hid my face through the rear-view mirror before he slumped in submission to the drug.

This was no longer a time for masks. I had Shrapner on my table in my little plastic, squared away room. His eyes darted from side to side as he woke up. I stepped into view, enjoying the panic on his face. I was relishing the fact that another bad man was going to be put down. The fact that he was bad actually didn't make it particularly relishing, but the simple fact that I _was_ indeed putting _something_ down, made it all the more pleasant. Still though, having an evil man at my table instead of an innocent one _does_ have it's advantages. After all, part of the ritual itself was to remind the criminal of the reason he was here. At this stage the whole thing might feel a just a little bit hollow if I left that bit out. He starts to beg, and then bargain as I read out his crimes against humanity and I remind him constantly of how much better the world would be without him. I am of course aware that the world would be better off without me too, but then, I don't particularly care what the world thinks anyway. I just know what Harry taught me and Harry's word was God.

I finish listing off his victims; there are tears in his eyes, for his own well-being, of course, not theirs. I pick up my scalpel and return to his side, making a pristine cut on his cheek. He shrieks in fear and I scowl at the noise but am too enrapt in my work of placing his blood on the cell to upbraid him. I walk back to my utensils after putting my trophy away and I pick up a nice sharp cleaver and duct tape. Clean, quick, gets the job done. When I walk back into Paulie's line of sight he lets out a particularly girlish scream. I'm about to put the duct tape on when he screams out in panic.

"If you do this, you'll be no better than me!"

I pause. My features twitch. No better? The Dark Passenger growls and I growl also.

"I may be a monster," I growl furiously and by the look on Paul's face, I take it I look pretty scary, "But I could _never_ do what you have done. Not to children, never children." Even to myself, I sound like a feral animal but I don't care; the Passenger howls with laughter and together we make up our minds to make this as slow and painful as possible.

Hours later. Blood, blood everywhere. I stand in front of what I had created. What had I created? Was it art? Hardly, there was way too much blood for that. But it _was_ my creation and soon I set about getting rid of all the plastic around it. When I was finished, I took the black trash bags out into the boot of my car. I looked at them. It was almost like going to the grocery store and picking up something nice for myself.

I drove to the marina where my boat was and I used that to get to my drop-off point, where all my other playmates go to when I'm finished with them. I suddenly wonder what people would think if they ever found my little resting ground of the wicked. They'd probably be horrified; after all, a monster that kills a monster must be a real monster, don't ya think? Well, Devilishly Deceptive Dexter would never be suspected. Not right away, anyway. After all, cheerful, polite Dexter who always waves as he passes in his little boat could never be a murderer surely? But he was so nice, so good with the kids and always had a smile on his face? Indeed but a fake smile, ma'am.

Well that was it, wasn't it? A fake smile, a fake human mask, but a real monster. That Damned Demon Dexter would only be as demonised as the tabloid's alliteration department could conjure.

I laugh a little and enjoy the sound of my Dark Passenger laughing too. I look to the moon. The Full, Fat moon. I can hear it's siren voice.

_Come out to play, little Dexter…_

And yes, I think I will, I really think I will.

But not yet… I have to make my next play date right, Harry right, with all the loose ends squared off and clean.

Before that however, I'm going to bed. After all, every charming, doughnut-bringing monster needs their sleep.


End file.
